


To Get Better

by hunkydorkling



Series: What We Owe To Each Other [2]
Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series)
Genre: 90s Alt Rock, A little bit of introspection, Drunk Texting and Filming, Gen, Hawk just goes back and forth in this fic and there's nothing I can do to stop it, Implied visuals of Hawk styling his hair, Jealousy, M/M, Movie Night Flashback, No Context Emoji Posting, Panicking Hawk, Quarantined Hawk, Simping for Friends, Underage Drinking, anger management issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28795365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunkydorkling/pseuds/hunkydorkling
Summary: With a few beer cans, misplaced confidence-slash-tantrums, and a party-for-one agenda, Hawk decides that sending drunken videos to his friends was a good idea. But is it really?
Relationships: Demetri & Eli "Hawk" Moskowitz, Demetri & Yasmine, Demetri/Eli "Hawk" Moskowitz, Miguel Diaz & Eli "Hawk" Moskowitz
Series: What We Owe To Each Other [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112357
Comments: 3
Kudos: 73





	1. Solitary Confinement

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a fic nobody was looking for (or maybe you were—you tell me), but here ya have it. Expect a lot of Hawk's embarrassment, a little fluff, and a hopeful ending. It's a filler to the hole in my headcanon heart, and hopefully yours too. Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. menocchio inspired me to do a fic in this kind of format, so if you're in the mood for a lengthier fic experience, click on Entire Work!

Hawk just finished watching a YouTube video of two scrawny kids sparring, his face showing no signs of amusement. If Hawk had physically been in that space, he’d pummel those dorks in a heartbeat. He could take everyone down in three minutes tops.

But of course, he wasn’t.

He closed the tab before any more of these ludicrous matches show up on his recommended feed.

It's been a few days since Hawk did any karate-related antics, which he figured was the most ideal way to spend this small break—even if it felt like something inside him always ached to come out.

It was also exactly two days before Christmas, and Hawk couldn’t care less. He figured the bruises that needed to heal were more important than spending the rest of his days preparing for the celebration of some silly tradition. Eventually it boiled down to screwing around with whatever was in his room.

Just the other day he tried styling his hair every which way besides the usual mohawk, until he got frustrated and left it alone. By nighttime, he wore what he calls a “usual house beanie” to hide his high-contrast hair. His folks never bothered to question this fashion choice, only that it was a “look”.

Whatever.

He kept trying to deny the fact that his brain was barely holding the capacity to contain the thoughts that seemed _so fresh_ and out the window. He could count out just a few of the fresh ones:

The LaRusso residence, trashed and with furniture mended.

The Cobra Kai dojo, _for obvious reasons._

_Brucks’ bloody face_.

And all the other parts of where he (or his fists) have been the last few months. He grimaced to himself as he thought of more, spacing out into the pixels of his monitor. Some winter break this was, he said to himself, but he had to admit that it was— in a gratifying sense— more time than he’d ask for. At least it served him physically, mentally, and (a little bit) emotionally. 

Hawk downed his third beer can for the night, and had about three more at his disposal before he went to the next six-pack. How he kept the cans ice cold was another story: before 7PM every other night, he would run down to the nearest convenience store and buy an ice bag, rush back to his home and hoped he wasn’t _too_ suspicious as he went up and dumped all of it in his ice box. 

And it’s not like he was committing some shady crime for chrissakes. All he thought of doing these days was let some 90s alternative band’s album echo and bounce around the four corners of his room, and then drink. Usually both. Inner voices asked why he kept putting up with this front, nobody was watching.

But at the same time, it was all he could get from the sanctuary that saw both Eli _and_ Hawk. Sickening how he felt like his posters had eyes, those that witnessed just how much of a _wimp_ he was, and how that quickly seemed to flip as soon as Hawk came in the picture, albeit repressed and unconvincing. He might as well feel like anything _but_ these two separate personalities; live like the beer can in his left hand: cold, bitter, and unapologetically made to be consumed in celebration of a good or bad time.

  
He was teetering on either side of the two, but now he seemed disassociated from himself. His hands worked to balance the can of beer on his desktop. It fell with a soft clang. _Goddamn it_ , he cursed internally. _Get it together, pussy_.  
  


A smile to himself. He needed to liven this party.


	2. Voluntary Anger & Spite

At first, he tried painting out and making sense of his thoughts, similar to a single, maybe few strokes on a canvas, and pretty soon he came up with a series of vibrant colors that made _no fucking sense_. 

He kept staring back and forth from his monitor to his wall of posters. Four cans became six, and before he knew it, his body was heating up, his vision fuzzier. 

A jump from his computer chair, Red Hot Chili Peppers' _Give It Away_ started blaring through the speakers, and his pink bruised fists threw themselves in the air. With a few huffs and encouraging shouts. It felt good _, extremely_ good, this buzz. After days of being high and dry, he felt unusually stiff yet energized. Almost felt wrong (to some degree, it could be).

He started to kick the edge of his plush bed with an overcharged sole. Every punch and kick seemed to send static through his veins, a sensation that felt close to being tased— he wondered how it felt like to be tased. But he felt this sensation _a lot_. 

Hawk pulled his right leg behind him as he hopped slightly before delivering a sharp straight kick to the air, timed just right with the song.

Another kick to the air, and a hooked punch, he continued the succession until he lunges and drop kicks and punches the pillow that was almost dreading to fall. Adrenaline and intensity seethed. 

_“Woohoo!_ ” Damon Albarn exclaims through the speakers. _Song 2_ had just come on. “ _When I feel heavy metal!_ ”

The seventh can of beer soon fit his hand as he stabbed the damn thing with his room keys, shotgunning it as he popped the tab off. As he tipped his head back, he fell to his bed, suckling on the hole from the metallic taste of cold aluminum. A cough and a sharp inhale later, he was left sucking in the metal taste of air.

Once he was done, wetness dripped from the corner of his mouth. He laid limply, motionless, a hand throwing the now-empty beer can lazily towards the trash can with the rest that created a pathetic mound of their own. 

This was the second time Hawk felt pathetic. Tonight, specifically, he felt like crashing his head into a wall multiple times until the dye tips of his hair weren’t the only thing stained crimson. To ultimately feel like a burnout would have been _the absolute last thing_ on his mind. But for once, it slightly freeing. He needed some form of release. Something that was as alive as him.

Hawk could feel his bile rise slowly from drinking too much. As stupid as it sounded, he pulled and opened another can to drink with an intention to drown out the— a notification from his phone chimed. 

Putting the newly-opened can to the side, he picked up his phone. A notification from one of Miguel’s posted stories. His eyebrows raised as he tapped it open. 

Miguel’s face looked nothing short of wrecked, but there it was. A lot of sores everywhere, he still had plasters from the last time he saw him. “Man, _El Serpiente_.” He chuckled to himself as he watched the Ecuadorian perform some measly kicks, as if he was relearning karate again. Seemed to be working. 

A right tap. His next story was a photo of him and Sensei Lawrence— and it didn’t take him a second guess to know— the Zebra baseball tee he wore once outside of the dojo was a damn giveaway. And Hawk guessed they had dinner together. An animated GIF of some wacko was looping at the lower left, some sort of inside joke, he thought. Of course. They were always closer than everyone else out of the class.

Hawk tried his best to feel nothing. And that did the trick.

The boy froze with his eyes fixed on the small screen. He felt a bulk of the beer’s effect kick in all the way through his forehead. Again, this felt good for the moment.

Moon’s new story automatically played next, catching him off guard. _God,_ he looked so pretty. And she was angling her phone to put things to view as she practiced some yoga pose he had no interest in knowing about. He sat up as he attentively stared at her arching back, then her protruding chest, and somehow the inside of his mouth came dry (did beer usually do that, he thinks some more). 

Parts of him ached and longed for her, but... if he already convinced himself he wasn’t right for her then, he sure as hell can’t be the fucking King of Right for her now— whoever she was with. He blinked to stay awake, but he was caving in to the intoxication by the minute.

_You can do better than them,_ an inner voice suggested. He had this petty idea to show that he was doing just fine. So he deeply thought, with his intoxicated self, that a harmless video can change that.

He’s shown off a couple of times anyway. So what was he quibbling for? 

_Set it to Close Friends,_ he thought. _You know how Mom and Dad are._

Seconds later, his shirt was off (in which he had a small tussle with, remember he had a very fogged up head and everything from this point on was a bother). He needed to confirm that he looked decent, so he stormed to the bathroom as he checked himself out. Two, three fingers ran across his grim reaper tattoo— man, the guy who did this should be a plastic surgeon, but for ink. He shook his head, a hand for the bottle of hair gel aimed to sleek his hair back. 

He did all of these poorly, but he must put on a show. _I’m fucking happy by myself, suck on this,_ he demanded silently. 

Hawk went back to his main room, reaching for the can of beer and his phone second. He gulped down generously, feeling the beer lose its cold. He swiped to see the rest other mutual friends’ stories. Three, then two. One for the road before he showed these fuckers the image of a good time. He tapped back to his feed.

  
 _DMan2002_ was next to his profile icon, indicating a new story. "— _back down!_ " The song finished—he guessed it was Sum 41's _Fat Lip_ — and it was the last thing he heard before the slight ringing in his ear started to pierce through. He tapped Demetri's icon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What kind of genre do you think Hawk also listens to? I feel like he has one of those phases where he'd just listen to 90s Alt Rock. Always golden.


	3. Virtual Apologies

It took Hawk a few blinks to really process what was flashing in front of his eyes. He had been spacing out for the first few seconds playing, and before it registered in his system (and delayed response), he closed his phone and threw it inches shy away from the bed’s edge. His palms slapped his brow ridge, pushing down deep into the hollows where his eyes were. Someone was slamming drums inside his ear canal. He couldn’t even tell who was playing from his speakers anymore. 

So was this why was he breathing heavily? Beer was _always_ on his side—usually. Now it looked like it constantly found ways to strap his head down and force Hawk into believing he _needed to see_ _and_ feel what he’s about to get himself into. Meddling, almost. 

Even though Demetri was the one willing to show the rest of the internet just how much fun he was having _without him_. Same goes for Miguel. Moon, too.

His chest heaved heavily. He needed to drink again. And the next time he chugged down his drink, he felt his entire scene spin, like… like a spinner. 

For a moment, his inhibitions were muted. He drank some more, and _wow._

This beer can in particular felt just right. 

His hand explored his bed’s real estate and groped for his phone (why he flailed around in the near-darkness, that’s on him). Hawk’s eyelids tried their best to stretch as far as they could, _if_ they could, and he blinked lazily to look for Miguel’s story again. 

He didn’t take a blind bit of notice running through this boy’s day— _fucking whatever_ —and went straight to replying, mistyping the words.

It said: _Whne are y ou gonna invit eme over, sweet cheks?_

Of course, he meant this in the least malicious way possible, Hawk guessed. At least, the half of it was sure to be true. There was this sharp pain to his chest. 

He pulled the bottom edge of his phone to his lips and pressed on the record button. 

A very long voice message was underway. “El~ Serpiente… Answer me!” 

He switched to camera mode and blinked his eyes open a couple of times, before regaining proper vision. “You— _buuuuurp—_ fucking, ah… what was I saying…” He feigned, clicked his tongue, then proceeded to stick it out as he laughed with apparent bloodshot eyes. “I forgot. Feel better, all right? Then let’s eat out. Damn. Taco Bell sounds nice right about now. I’m fucking starving— what were you and Sensei Lawrence _eating_. I want some-a that.” 

He took one long stare into their chat history before releasing a last message. It was a photo of his window, moonlight leaking through the glass. He decided to type it out.

_BtwI ‘m srry lol_

One cowboy emoji later, and that was it. It’s not like he could keep the video long (it was around a minute and a half as he stared back at his heinous excuse of a hairdo—he didn’t care anymore). He double tapped his video before his finger swept right to feed. 

By this time, his head was already leaning to his right, lazily, managing to pathetically swipe past Moon’s profile icon, going straight for _DMan2002._

A pause. He really was about to snoop around this nerd’s stories for the first time in a _long_ time. _Burp_. 

Hawk _knew_ he was drunk out of his mind right, and he didn’t need more beer cans to prove it. But maybe it was what he “intended” to do in the first place, to get out of this physical confinement and out into the virtual open. And though his lack of judgment went along with it, plus another chug of beer, he couldn’t seem to disguise this apparent nervousness he felt to his core.

Oh well, he was _so_ skilled at hiding, if you didn’t know by now. 

Eyes were peeled as wide as they can for this one portion of Demetri’s story. The first one, it was a photo of Yasmine crossing both her arms over her chest, and legs laid sideways on the couch. Demetri was out of frame— he shot only his lower part and ridiculously long legs. He couldn’t make out the actual design, but a few seconds later, he remembered: _candy cane socks from three Christmas Eves ago_. That said socked foot was brushing against Yasmine’s, just by her right, a charmed anklet reflecting what little light there was. She was facing towards the flickering of the TV, disinterested, not dismissing whatever was snaking up to her shins. 

The drunk boy gulped down the obstruction lodged inside his throat. Or airhole. He couldn’t tell, but he was feeling _things_ , so he just let the photo run out by itself and moved on. 

This next one was a video, camera pointed towards the TV playing _Mean Girls._ A big _, big_ question mark drew itself over his head. Was he _actually_ checking into this kind of chick flick crap? His mind could only wander so far; it took a lot of energy to jump from conclusion to accusation. But this was _atrocious_ for Demetri’s standards. What if he was held hostage there? Or that he _wanted_ to watch it. Wanted to impress her. 

Hawk’s nostrils flared, lips pursed. _Burp_. 

He replied to the video, selected a very ambiguous Wales flag emoji, then pulled up their DM history. Kind of bittersweet that all of their chat history from reacting to stories to shit takes just popped up… from at least a year and a half ago. But he tried kicking a foot out up in the air, and went straight back to business. 

A hand brought his phone’s microphone to his lips, somehow almost kissing it (ha, most action he’s had in months), as Hawk tried to record a voice message. It was slurred, long-winded, but this time, sincere as best he can put it.

“On brand—” _Burp_ , again, but this time softer. “—brand movie for that she-bitch you’re dating. I remember when you used to watch— _burp_ —cooler _shit_ , like _Ex Machina_.” His tone at the end of the sentence went up the rollercoaster. 

He continued, exhaling straight into the microphone. “Bet she doesn’t even... let you talk over the movie. It’s what you do best, why aren’t you yapping?” Another pause, the audio sent itself immediately. He blinked as he spoke again. “I’m the only one who can follow the movie AND the stupid… stupid things you say, that ugly mouth.”

By this time, the beer he had by his nightstand had grown lukewarm, completely devoid of any reason for Hawk to drink it. And that was _one_ reason. The other, he had already done the deed. He turned on the back camera of his phone, pointed at the ceiling.

The guitar intro from Lit’s _Miserable_ started playing from his desktop, his eyes hopping to and from the monitor, screen turned off, to his phone. His thumb was already pressing on the record button. 

“ _You make me come,”_ the intro started, a shaking camera and four seconds into this random video. Man, was it blurry and dark. His eyelids were so close to surrendering.

He mumbled as he erratically pointed from the ceiling to the window. “I definitely miss caramel popcorn. Haven’t had any in…” He feigned counting again. He angled his phone to show his left hand for proof. “A year. I think… we just finished Avatar then.” 

He turned to his left side, slowly fading to slumber. “Just come over, just… come over. I’ll show you a real movie night. Your favorite...”

His eyes and mind were resting all the way as a thumb pressed send in reflex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, what a mess. But to the few who left kudos, y'all are awesome. I'll keep writing more with you all in mind!


	4. Favorite Movie

_“… my new favorite.”_

When Eli slept, he would often see stars that existed just beyond the spaces his eyelids created. These stars quickly faded as he slowly fluttered his eyes open, the long stretch of the Demetri’s living room cabinet being the first one he saw, followed by the flickering of the TV. He tried to blink about ten times within the last five seconds before his vision finally cleared out. 

He must have fallen asleep somewhere during the movie. 

And to be fair, they had a long night—so Eli had thought. Today was, as Demetri called it, their _Box Office Bonding_ , which was another term for their bi-monthly movie night. It almost pushed to be an ambitious weekend affair during the first summer, which was then reduced to every other Saturday.

It was 2013 when Pacific Rim came out to DVD, and the taller boy—even at age 12— made sure he got his own copy before Eli came over. And whenever he would come over, he made sure that he never forgot to bring a six-pack box (“Mountain Dew, if you please.” _Very specific_ ). There were also a few bags of chips, and caramel popcorn (Eli's personal favorite). 

Added to the snack roster were a few more elements to what made that movie night: two respective decks of Pokémon cards, PS3 controllers, and… well, those were pretty much it. Even so, Eli loved hanging out at Demetri’s place. Whether it was a night of card games or some silly Call of Duty co-op, all of those yielded the unique memories, some he never complained over. And when they hung out in silence, fun still found its way into their conversations. 

Eli trailed back— he didn’t remember falling asleep, though he did forget what happened towards the tail end of the movie. Guessed he was too tuckered out from the pre-movie activities they did, which was pretty much conversing about the rare cards that they still need to collect, and some girls they found cute a few grades higher than them. Eli had, in a pessimistic sense, never ambitiously sought after any of his crushes, not even with the amount of secondhand experiences that included brushing against or even brief eye contact with a girl. _Not with a lip like this_ , he’d argue as usual. So even if Eli thought about bringing up the topic with Demetri, well. It was a one-sided argument waiting to happen. 

The reality of that moment (or so he _thinks_ ) was the TV’s low volume looping menu, a clock that read a quarter until eleven in the evening, and— what felt like long legs brushing up Eli’s own. He looked down to survey the rest of the space and found his best friend, fast asleep, arms partially sprawled over his head and dangling by the edge of the armrest.

As the crickets chirped, the blond realized that the night was finally silent, even with the main menu’s faint background music. Eli’s eyes trailed the other boy's figure, starting from his mop head full of dark brown hair. It grew a little longer than his usual clean cut, parted to his left, bangs almost past his eyebrows. Now, this boy talked and contributed more social points between their conversations majority of the time, so when he rested, it was hard to believe he almost looked angelic.

What he meant was— he _looked like a baby_. The flickering light from the TV was a good accent that really showed the highlights and shadows of his face. Kind of weird how he thought of it, really, but he just shrugged it off.

Eli carefully retrieved one leg, then the other (they were like flies caught in a damn spiderweb), which warranted some movement on Demetri’s end, but the blond continued to sit up carefully. Demetri relaxed back to position.

Quietly, he started to tidy up the aftermath of their movie night, as he usually did. Once he was done, he sat on the carpeted floor behind the coffee table, just the space in between the couch. His hand reached for the remote and navigated to Chapter Selection. He _was_ genuinely curious how it ended. 

Also, because he knew that Demetri would want to talk about it when he woke up. 

So Eli looked behind him, and as the scene played (at low volume, of course), there was a number of things he didn’t know about his best friend, such as the way his eyelashes curled and extended. Why was this even an observation? Demetri talked (as he listened) a lot to notice. When he didn’t stare at his asymmetrical upper lip, he would directly stare at his eyebrows, or his forehead, but never the way his dark eyelashes curled.

As someone who spent more time with Demetri in school— in _all_ the years they’d hung out together—he never for a second thought about the way his freckles dispersed just around the area of his nose bridge, and how faint they were, yet visible.

The scarce light that came from the TV, it was enough for the 12-year-old boy to somehow be fascinated with his best friend’s oddity and eccentricity. And just now, he came to realize he didn’t know much at all about him, other than what Demetri chose to tell him, like their shared interests.

That was generous for someone who talked a lot. But Eli listened. Always listened.

Eli found himself staring way too long for comfort, so much so that when a hot burst of breath from Demetri’s partially open mouth let out, he jolted up ever so slightly and turned his head away, focusing as best as he can on the ending scene of the movie. From the rustling body he heard from behind him, the small hairs by his nape rose. He figured a pair of eyes were staring at him, so he slowly turned his head back to check.

Demetri, with half a drunken sleepy mind and barely-parted eyelids, mumbled. “ _Aweso_ _me_ movie, my new favorite.” That, and a smile.

The other boy stared, reciprocating the smile on his own face. He nodded, lips pursed enough to flaunt his lip scar. _I’ll remember that_ , he thought. By this time, Demetri’s eyes slowly closed and fell right back to slumber. His red lips parted just enough to reveal his two buck teeth. 

Eli’s eyes softened. All he could ever muster as a reply was a faint whisper, “Thank you.” 

Right as he stared at the screen, he saw the closing credits show Guillermo Del Toro’s name— _oh come on._ As he pressed rewind, he can’t help but mentally play back the several instances where he was _genuinely happy_ to have this boy around, and how he might not get a chance at this kind of friendship ever… at least, not while his scar made the first impression. 

So he made a quiet promise to never leave Demetri’s side— not that he’d ever say it aloud, but he won’t. Because it's what he owed him.

What could possibly ruin something as great as this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to churn out a bit more brain energy into this chapter so that I get some technicalities out of the way, but um YEAH, these cuties having bi-monthly movie nights are one of my favorite headcanon takes (among others that I still have to establish). Hope this flashback served all you Hawkmeat shippers, even just a little bit!


	5. Unexpected Resolution

The stars that that floated in his sleep reached no further than the spaces his eyelids created. And once he saw some type of gradation form and bleed their way into the previously-black space, it was his cue to slowly open his eyes. 

And he wished he hadn’t. As soon as the starry illusions faded, he’d come to realize that this was _exactly_ the kind of thing he anticipated to hate about drinking beer. _The hangovers are insane._ But the good thing to come out of it was— well, Hawk couldn’t put a finger on it, really. 

All he could do was waking up grimacing in line with the hangover. It was weird, to say the least. If only he could make sense of what happened right after he did those splitting kicks on the edge of his bed, that would give him an answer. 

_What time was it?_

What he noticed as he opened his eyes was how the sky wasn’t the kind of dark he last saw it (on account of all the lights were already turned off _and_ the fact he was pathetically drunk). He also took to notice how orange and purple colors transitioned softly into each other. There were also a few flocks of birds that flew across the said sky every other minute. It’s more shocking to think he could be sober enough in deconstructing a dawn like this—even with an annoying headache.

The last time he could recall waking up to this kind of serenity was… he thought of his childhood. And looming through, his dream from hours ago started to set in fragments, but was followed by a sharp hit that came from the left of his head, then the right, as he winced more from irritation than one from the actual hangover. But there was no doubt he had some visual of Demetri’s freckled nose last, before he figured to sit up from the bed and look for his phone. 

He groped and reached the bedsheets until he felt his phone's rounded corners, putting it before his face, the light very much blinding him the second he opened it. “Ah, shit,” Hawk groaned as he squinted. The clock on his phone read 7AM, and boy, was it too early. 

Odd how he had a longer string of notifications than usual, too, at least overnight. So Hawk tried opening his eyes a bit more before realizing where—and more importantly, _who—_ these notifications came from.

_No._ What in God’s name did he _do_ last night?

His pulse was starting to hammer its way through his ears, and he couldn’t tell if it was from the hangover or from _this insufferable anxiety he was having_. From his phone’s lit screen to somewhere towards the far left, his PC was blinking. By this time, his computer had gone into Sleep mode; for some reason, it gave Hawk an extra reason to feel more cold sweat. 

The blinking, birds tweeting outside, the clock of his phone counting the seconds, a splitting hangover, heavy breathing. His eyes darted back and forth from the ceiling to the four walls that didn’t seem to give his anxious self a break, especially in this particular morning. 

He was actively avoiding to look at his phone, dead set in front of his face, now dimly lit but still visible. So he inhaled very deeply and tapped to make sure it stayed lit.

“Holy shit,” he uttered softly, seeing _migueldiaz_ pop in a message—it was hidden—followed by a photo. 

“Shit, shit…” He scrolled down some more. 

_DMan2002 sent a message._

Hawk’s shaky hand attempted to rake his head of hair, only to find out it was almost rock solid and sticky. It was still coated in flakes of hair gel. _Goddammit,_ he cursed inwardly again. This morning was extending his crapfest from last night, more like it.

So, should he open these notifications _at all_? No doubt that the tension was rising—

—and rise up it did. Before he could figure out what was happening, his throat had the sudden need to regurgitate. It never occurred to the boy that he forgot to eat a thing last night while drinking.

His feet bolted towards the bathroom door as the vomit released itself by a very small margin from the open toilet. As he knelt, static electricity also erupted and shot itself all over his brain, in certain crevices he hadn’t felt regardless if he was sober or not. And as they traveled all the way from different parts of his noggin, wetness from his eyes started to push through the sockets, seeming to be from the pressure.

Though for a moment, Hawk guessed this came from two things: the pressure from all things that ached physically, or _something far beyond_ the things that ached _emotionally_.

Nah, what was he thinking. It was definitely the hangover’s fault. Puking out a storm basically messed up the rest of his dehydrated body.

After upchucking and releasing practically everything but his innards, he flushed, rinsed off, and went to rest the small of his forehead on the bathroom’s frame, groggy as he wiped the edges of his wet mouth and cheeks with a free arm. Could be worse—at least he didn’t do the release all on the carpet floor. This time around, he had to make sure the carpet was the last place he’d spew beer and chunks on or whatever.

Three knocks came from the other end of the door. “Eli, are you all right? I heard puking.” It was Mrs. Moskowitz.

Quickly, Hawk had to make an alibi and said, “I-It was the computer. I was—” he shuffled towards his keyboard and pressed some key consecutively. “Watching an episode. Sorry. Good morning!” 

Silence. After a few seconds, Mrs. Moskowitz spoke again. “Okay. I’ll cook breakfast. Your favorite?”

“Y-Yes please, thank you.” 

He heard footsteps slowly fade away after that. Pressure started to set in his head again.

Speaking of computers, one of the prominent things he remembered doing last night was the little karate tantrum he pulled as the music blared. What he could barely recall, though, was what made his hair _that_ sticky.

As his eyes shot to the phone on his bead, he clicked his tongue and started to pat the top of his hard head, softly uttering to himself. “Ugh, gross.” 

There was only one way to solve it, and that he did as he went straight to the bathroom for a hot shower.

* * *

Hot water had some benefits to his hungover self, mainly with the headache for starters. It didn’t expel so much of the worry he had with the notifications, and those looming suppositions were all he could cling onto before _actually reading them_. Through the fog of the hot steam, he trailed the seams of the shower's wall of ceramic tiles while thinking about Demetri’s reply to… _what_ , exactly? 

How shitfaced was he to have this foggy state of mind— _out of place,_ almost? He just remembered mumbling to himself while he viewed their stories. Not as if he had enough energy to muster up a damn Michael Bay movie as a reply.

Or so it seemed. All he could do was aggressively cleanse the gunk out of his roots and hairs with clarifying shampoo. The steam helped in some way, but he knew he had to go down to his Mom and act like he was hunky-dory later on, so he had to try his best to feel as all right if he can. 

As he came out of the shower clad in a towel, hair still dripping wetness down to his shoulders, he heaved a heavy sigh and snatched his phone. 

_Here it goes. Just get on with it._ A hesitant finger hovered over the first notification and viewed Miguel’s replies first.

Two emojis: a middle finger and smirking. He rose a brow and tilted his head slightly, growing even more mortified with the replies he’d sent. Another sharp but tolerable pain shot through the left side of his head, which was his brain's way of saying _that's for the stupidity of your actions_.

He did smirk, so.

He scrolled down some more, went back to his messages, and realized that he reacted to _every Instagram story_ he saw from these three (or four?) people— he had absolutely zero memory of ever doing this kind of intricate social effort.

Hawk played these videos back, eyebrows meeting in the middle, mentally strangling himself for what he’s done. He wanted to hit unsend, oh _man_ did he want to press unsend, but the damage had been done. Knowing Miguel, it was likely he took screenshots of the whole conversation for potential blackmail. Hawk sounded like a totally needy chick with these voice messages.

But hey, he had a soft spot for Miguel. That would always be a fact.

The last message from his friend read: “We need to catch up anyway. Got a lot of stuff to tell you soon, man.” It was followed by a _no homo_ GIF that made Hawk chuckle genuinely—a first throughout the morning. 

That’s one down. He still wasn’t done, and he recalled seeing about four or five messages coming from the _other_ boy. Right. 

He had two best friends. And he didn’t want to read what the other had to say. He’d be reading a novel longer than Bee Movie’s entire script.

At the back of Hawk’s mind he knew he’d done something jackass-worthy and can practically smell it. He knowingly set his expectations very, very low with the turning point because, from the tidbits he found from Miguel’s alone, ideas of the cockamamie shit he sent was already dead set. And if there was no redeeming (just in case), he’d have to accept it. At least one out of two friendships was guaranteed.

_Here goes nothing_ , Hawk braced. He tapped Demetri’s message.

Demetri did this thing where he replied to the posts in order without swiping the ones he was _particularly_ replying to. It definitely annoyed him, but he tried his best not to get carried away and started with one—carefully avoiding the stuff he’d sent before.

First message read: “FYI, Mean Girls is just as funny, probably even funnier than how I imagined it to be. I can see the appeal, actually. Well-intended writing.” An OK emoji. 

Second message: “Also, I happened to keep my mouth shut the entire movie out of respect for the material. And because Yasmine promised we’d make out if I shut up.” Hawk didn’t need to know that, not at all. He cringed and contemplated reading the rest for half a minute.

Third one was when he loaded a photo. Demetri’s slender pointer finger held up to that one part in the movie with Damian in a Santa costume. The caption read: “There it is, that reference. Glenn Coco. You see that?” Hawk felt indifferent. Unamused at most.

The fourth was also a photo that he managed to load. As soon as he saw Demetri’s smug face, Hawk’s own shoulders started to tense up. Something about this boy’s face was annoying, but he wasn’t entirely repulsed. “So, a real movie night, you say? That’s very bold of you, but fine. Your place this time.” A text message, next. “I need to, er… desensitize, at the very least. I need a break from chick flicks.”

Fifth photo, Demetri’s brow was raised. “I’m gonna bring the food and drinks. I’ll be there on the 26th.”

And that was it. So… was this a date then? He thought very intently, not making an effort to mask a soft expression. His head still pulsed, but he was relieved nonetheless.

His head veered towards the window pane, and the rest of the morning started to rise. There was still that groggy feeling; it occurred to him that he was still clad in a towel. With his phone, he swiped his thumb up and realized he missed a video message. 

Demetri whispered, “Don’t ruin this—” He was prematurely cut off, Yasmine’s paranoid voice piercing through. “Hey, what are you doing? Are you posting this? Give me that— delete that, DELETE THAT!” The video ended as it popped back down.

Well, Hawk breathed heavily and laid back down on his bed, everything wet and half exposed. The silence hit differently now that he was partially sober, but he was more or less at peace as long as he didn’t check out the stuff he posted. He didn’t believe in jinxes, but in today’s case, he couldn’t risk it.

Hawk licked his lips and sighed.

There was obviously no game plan yet, but he knew what he was supposed to do next: he needed to make sure this movie night exceeded Demetri's expectations. “Don’t ruin this.”

Hawk repeated the words over and over again until the sun started to peek from his windowpane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was on a 90s alt rock binge (which were mostly the tracks I grew up listening to) when this fic came to me. Somehow after the whole debacle between the Miyagi-Do and Eagle Fang kids, Hawk would have tried to make do with most of the leftover emotional stress that he brings it to good ol' social media while intoxicated. But yeah, this was fun to write! We'll get to see how great of a "date" planner Hawk really is compared to Eli. Really hope you guys stick around for that. Kudos and comment if you've enjoyed this one!


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